Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (12 page)

Francesca glanced at the rocking chair set by the window. Someone certainly liked sitting there and watching the world go by. “Does your mother sit here?”

“Once in a while. She has gout and arthritis and she prefers to remain in bed.” Catherine Holmes stood up. She seemed more anxious than ever. She would have been a
pretty woman had her expression been less worried, somber, and severe.

Francesca wondered if she was hiding something. She would bet her last nickel that poor Catherine Holmes, trapped in a dismal apartment with her scowling, ill mother, would sit at the window and watch the passersby, yearning for another life and another world.

Bragg stood. “Did you know Miss Neville, Miss Holmes?”

“No. She moved in a month or so ago and kept to herself. But I know she is an artist and that she had just come from Paris. Her brother told me so.”

Francesca froze. “Thomas?”

Catherine Holmes nodded. “Yes. He comes to see her every day, or so it seems.” She hesitated. “Although I haven’t seen him since poor Miss Conway was murdered.”

Francesca and Bragg shared a glance. “Do you know where we can find Thomas Neville?” Bragg asked oh-so-calmly.

“No, I don’t. He was very talkative, but he never mentioned where he lives.” She looked from Bragg to Francesca and back again. “What is this about?”

“We have been trying to locate him,” Bragg said.

“When did you last see and speak with Miss Neville?” Francesca had to cry. “And was she a friend of Miss Conway’s?”

“I don’t see how they could be friends when she had only just moved in,” Catherine Holmes said. “But I last saw her Monday night.”

Francesca trembled. “Monday night?” Grace Conway could have been murdered on Monday night!

Catherine Holmes looked wary now. “Yes. She had forgotten her keys. I happened to be coming in myself, and I let her in. It was six
P.M.
I know, because I had promised Mother I would be back by six at the very latest.”

“That is very helpful,” Bragg said, clearly tamping down his own enthusiasm now.

While Francesca wanted to jump up and down. “And
then what happened? Did you see her go out again?”

“No, I did not.” Catherine Holmes was stiff now. “I had to make supper and put Mother to bed. I have no idea if she went out again or not, but that is the last time I saw her.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Holmes,” Bragg said, taking her hand.

She seemed surprised by the gentlemanly gesture. She flushed.

“Thank you,” Francesca added, grinning. She grabbed Bragg’s arm and practically dragged him into the hall. “Do you know what this means?” she cried.

He smiled. “I think so.”

“Miss Neville returned in the approximate window of time in which Miss Conway was murdered. Do you think she found her body . . . and then ran away? Or perhaps she even saw the murder!” she cried, her excitement rising with this last and hopeful thought.

“Or perhaps the murderer saw her as well,” Bragg said.

Francesca’s elation vanished. “You’re right. This is not necessarily good news. I am worried about her, Bragg.”

“Then that makes two of us,” he replied.

W
EDNESDAY
, F
EBRUARY 19, 1902—2:00 P.M.

“I
SIMPLY CANNOT BELIEVE
what has befallen Evan, Julia,” Bartolla Benevente said. She and Sarah were following Julia upstairs in the Cahill mansion. As always, Bartolla was resplendently dressed, in a sapphire ensemble, and she was wearing the jewels to match her slim little jacket and skirt. But now she was pale in spite of the rouge on her cheeks. She had reacted badly when she heard of Evan’s accident.

“I can only thank God he is getting better every day,” Julia said, her expression drawn. “Thank you so much for calling, Countess. Sarah, dear, and how are you?”

Sarah flushed with guilt. Bartolla, her cousin, was going on and on, with genuine concern, about Evan’s welfare. While she had not said a single commiserating word—and he was her fiancé. Not that she did not care. Of course she cared. He was the man chosen to be her husband—never mind that she wished, desperately, that she might remain unwed. And he was nice enough. He had always behaved courteously toward her, and Sarah knew he was very disappointed
that she had been chosen to be his bride. Not that she blamed him. She was skinny and plain and entirely obsessed with her painting. Men never looked at her the way that they looked at her cousin or Francesca. “I am fine, Mrs. Cahill,” she murmured.

Bartolla took her arm possessively. “Sarah has completely recovered from that odd bout with fever that she had. I, of course, am anxiously awaiting news from the police and Miss Cahill as to whom the culprit was who dared invade our home and wreak such havoc on Sarah’s studio. Sarah has been so very brave.”

Sarah gave Bartolla a small smile. She was as anxious to know who had violated her beloved art studio and wished her cousin would not sing her praises. She had been nourishing the tiniest kernel of hope, deep within herself, that something or someone would interfere with her wedding and that she might remain a single young lady somehow.

Yet she knew her hopes to be utterly foolish.

“Yes, Sarah is very brave. This is so terrible, first Sarah’s studio, and now this assault upon my son.” Julia was so grim, and Sarah had the odd feeling that she knew more than she was letting on.

“I have come to know your son a bit,” Bartolla commented as they swept up the corridor. “It is simply so surprising that he would find himself in a barroom brawl.” The countess smiled at Julia, but her stare was penetrating.

“Boys will be boys,” Julia murmured, not meeting Bartolla’s regard. They all paused at Evan’s door, which was ever so slightly ajar.

Sarah stood behind both women. She was barely five feet tall, while Bartolla was perhaps five-foot-seven and Julia somewhere in between them both. So at first Sarah could not see into the bedroom at all.

“Well, well,” Bartolla murmured. “Who is that?”

“Mrs. Kennedy is still with us,” Julia said. “And she has been a savior, really.”

“I can see that,” Bartolla said, her tone odd.

Sarah found her curiosity piqued. She was no fool—she
had seen the sparks flying between Evan and her cousin. If the truth be known, she wished them well—once she had even come to the hopeful conclusion that maybe they could run off together, leaving her alone, a spinster with her freedom. Of course, neither one would ever betray her in such a manner. Now she edged between the two taller women and saw a surprising sight.

Mrs. Kennedy, the seamstress who had made an amazing red ball gown for Francesca, sat on the bed by Evan’s hip. They were engaged in a quiet and casual conversation, but there was something so intimate about the scene that even Sarah felt a moment of surprise. It was like walking in on two very old and dear friends—or on a husband and his wife.

Maggie laughed. Evan was smiling, but even so, he looked dreadful, with his face black-and-blue and a black patch over his eye.

“Evan? Your fiancée is here with the Countess Benevente,” Julia said.

Maggie leaped hastily to her feet. She faced them, eyes downcast, two bright pink spots on her face.

“Hello, Evan!” Bartolla cried, sailing into the room. She ignored the seamstress, treating her as if she were a piece of the room’s furniture. “We just heard about your terrible accident, and we are so distressed!”

“Bartolla!” Evan sat up straighter, surprised, and then he was smiling. Sarah felt a pang, watching their gazes meet and hold. There was no doubt that they were genuinely fond of each other. She despaired. Perhaps she should be the one to run away.

The idea was not without merit.

“Sarah, hello,” Evan said.

Sarah started, realizing that Mrs. Kennedy had fled and that Julia was leaving the three of them alone. She managed a smile. “Evan, I just heard, and I am so sorry,” she said softly. “How badly are you hurt?” she asked worriedly. And to think that she had been absorbed in the trauma of what had happened to her silly studio. It was only a room.
She could paint Bartolla’s portrait again. The walls could be cleaned, new canvases and paints bought. What had been wrong with her?

“I shall be as good as new in no time,” he said as Bartolla sat down on the bed, exactly where Maggie Kennedy had been seated.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

“A sip of water?” he asked, smiling at her.

Bartolla found the glass of water on his bedstand. She leaned forward, exposing quite a bit of cleavage, as her jacket was low-cut and she wore only a lace chemise beneath. Evan’s gaze dropped, then quickly lifted. Sarah turned away, walking to the window.

She didn’t care. She didn’t care that Evan was smitten with her cousin, as well he should be. Bartolla was gorgeous, vivacious, clever, kind. She was everything a woman should be.

Sarah paused before the window and stared down at the back lawns, which were blanketed in snow. She hugged herself, felt a patch of paint, and realized she had a spot of purple on her green skirt. Looking down, she found several blotches, and she sighed. Her stomach turned.

It was only a studio. It was only a room. So what if one canvas had been destroyed? Nothing else had happened. There was no reason for her to feel so ill every time she thought about it. Or was there?

She closed her eyes, vaguely aware of Evan and Bartolla in quiet conversation behind her. Her stomach felt violently ill now, and in the shadows of her mind there was a threat. Lurking in the black fog, somewhere, was something terrible, or someone.

She shivered and suddenly felt eyes upon her.

In the shadows there was a man. A terrible, terrible man
.

The sensation of being watched increased. Sarah had begun to shake when her arm was seized from behind. She cried out, whirling, and came face-to-face with wide topaz eyes and a hank of dusty blond-brown hair falling directly into them.

“Miss Channing?”

Sarah pulled away. Her vision cleared, and she came face-to-face with Rourke Bragg.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his amber eyes unwavering upon hers.

She did not like the way he stared. And she liked even less the fact that when she had been terribly ill and afraid, he had decided to be her doctor. Why, he wasn’t even a doctor—he was only a medical student. And she realized his hand remained on her wrist. She pulled away. “I am fine. Good day, Mr. Bragg.”

He eyed her as if he did not believe her, then smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “You seem so sad,” he said.

“I am hardly sad,” she snapped. Not that it was his business!

“No?” He gestured with his head toward the couple on the bed, darkness coming to his eyes. “You truly have every reason to be angry, not sad.”

She knew what he meant. She shrugged. “I don’t care. She is beautiful. He should be marrying her.”

Rourke shook his head with disbelief. “I can’t believe you mean that.”

He was annoying her again. “I do,” she said tartly. “And what do you really care about my feelings, Mr. Bragg?”

He stiffened. “I happen to be in the healing profession. It is my nature to care. It is why I shall one day become a doctor.”

She felt terrible for being so rude. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what overcame me . . .” She trailed off. She knew why he made her so uncomfortable. She felt very certain he had seen her skinny body unclothed when she was feverish, and she didn’t like it, not one bit. But she was too embarrassed to ask if the vague recollections she had of being ill and naked in his arms were true.

“How is that bruise?” he asked.

“Better.” She turned toward Evan and Bartolla. They had their heads together and Evan was chuckling over some misadventure being related by the countess.

“He is a fool,” Rourke said. “I feel sorry for him.”

Sarah had no idea what he meant. She squared her shoulders. “I think he is kind and gallant. Unlike most men.” She gave him a significant look.

Rourke laughed, hard. “I am not insulted,” he said, still chuckling. “You know, appearances are truly deceiving, are they not? You are not a timid little mouse at all. One day, your forward manner will get you into trouble, my girl.”

So now he was insulting her? “I am not your girl,” she snapped.

“You do not have to tell me that!” he returned as swiftly.

That gave her pause. He was rather good-looking, in that golden Bragg way—if one was in the habit of admiring men, which she was not. Then she gave it up. She was an artist, and while she preferred painting women and children, she had an artist’s eye and the man confronting her was simply gorgeous. He had those uniquely high cheekbones, inherited from some Indian ancestor, a straight, strong nose, a cleft chin, not to mention intriguing dimples. He was tall, six feet or so, with very broad shoulders and very slim hips. Undoubtedly he had a lady he was seriously courting back in Philadelphia—which was fine with her. More than fine, in fact.

It was an oddly comforting notion.

“You are undressing me with your big brown eyes,” he said, a soft, soft murmur.

She jumped. “I beg your pardon!” But even as she spoke, she knew she had been taking a very personal inventory of his lean thighs and she felt heat growing in her cheeks. “I was doing no such thing!”

“And this brings to mind a question I would like to ask you,” he said firmly.

Sarah nodded, desperate to get their encounter over with, desperate to leave the room.

“Hart mentioned something to me about a casual supper this Friday night. We are going to an opening of a gallery first. He thought you might wish to join us,” Rourke said, his usually mobile face quite expressionless.

Her heart leaped. Calder Hart was a world-famous collector of art, and he had recently commissioned Francesca Cahill’s portrait from her. That commission might give her some renown in the art world. Sarah could think of nothing more enjoyable—or frightening—than an evening spent in his company, discussing art. She wondered if he might give her a viewing of his own extensive collection at some point in the evening. She prayed it would be so. She opened her mouth to reply and could not get a single word out.